


Resurrection

by oldestcharm



Series: Resurrection!verse [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings), Tolkien (Silmarillion
Genre: Gen, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2020-09-01 08:26:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20255140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldestcharm/pseuds/oldestcharm
Summary: A weather worn traveller wanders the lands he does not remember having seen before.





	Resurrection

Mandos looms above him, dark and terrifying, but just as ever. His responsibility is to judge the dead, the spirits. He does so with precision.

This is how Glorfindel knows he is dead.

He gazes at the grey marble pillars in the endless hall, the lights flickering around like sun gleam reflecting from the riverbed. It reminds him of something. Something intimately familiar, but it is beyond him. His memories are clouded, as though he isn’t allowed full access just yet. He wonders if he ever will be.

He remains in the sacred halls of Mandos, static, until time begins to bleed into itself. The world around him is smoke and drumbeat.

After what feels like an eternity, or perhaps mere seconds, he is being spoken to. He is offered another chance, a chance to return to Middle Earth and fulfil an important task.

Glorfindel accepts, but nothing comes without a price.

*

A weather worn traveller wanders the lands he does not remember having seen before. Navigating through the marshes and the woods leaves his long blond hair tangled and dirty. It is only highlighted by the unforgiving glimmer of the morning sun. His cloak is a state, not to mention the uncomfortably large boots he’s borrowed from a small village he’s passed almost a fortnight prior. His feet ache, but he is nearing his destination.

He bears three tokens, gifted to him as a generosity from the Valar: the sword with which he had slain the Balrog of Morgoth, a shield of the hidden city and a golden flower, piercing the soft fabric of his cloak. All three of them, he has managed to keep relatively clean, though he has little doubt they will be soaked in the blood of the enemy soon enough. Middle Earth is not as kind as the Undying Lands, but the elven realm he is about to cross might offer a sanctuary of sorts. According to the Dúnedain it is twenty two miles from the Ford to Imladris. He hopes to be there by nightfall.

Walking leaves him a lot of time to think, time to remember.

Images of the bright white city flash behind his eyelids whenever he dares to close them. The tall towers falling with cracks akin to an avalanche in the mountains as they scatter to dust, leaving them all trapped underneath. Dragonfire every which way he can see. Steel, fire and screams. A fallen friend. The endless heat, restricted breathing and black smoke guarding his view of the enemy. He would fight him off to spare time for his people, for them to reach safety, for them to start anew. A clawed smoking hand tightening its grip on his long white hair, scorching and pulling until they fall together, Glorfindel’s sword piercing the demon’s side. He forces the blade deeper, one last act of valour before they crash on the side of the mountain in a heap of broken bones.

Then, silence.

A small crack drags Glorfindel back to the present just in time to see a deer seek shade under the nearby trees. He has indulged in his thoughts long enough for the sun to hide behind the sea.

The sea! How strange does the word seem now that Beleriand, his home, has sunk. He remembers life returning to his limbs on the beach. He remembers slowly making his way to the nearest settlement without recollection of what was, what is and what is yet to come. It had been easier then. Slowly but surely the memories of his old life are beginning to return and perhaps it is for the best they had not done so before as he would have found it difficult to walk East when his heart remains at the bottom of the sea.

He is starting to recognise the price he has paid.

At last he reaches the city walls, looming high above him, fusing with the darkened grey sky as the night attempts to swallow them whole. Glorfindel stops at the gate, bowing respectfully to the wide-eyed guards who seem to be scrutinising his admittedly ragged attire and the unfortunate lack of a horse.

“_Aaye, melloneamin,_” Glorfindel greets them, not expecting recognition from these parts of the world. The elves have long lives, but he has been asleep for quite some time now. Enough time for new elves to be born into the world. Enough time for the mountains to take new shapes and the sea to bury his former home. Enough time, perhaps to forget about him.


End file.
